Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Salt In The Wound**

**Aurora’s POV**

Long after Matteo has left, I find myself trapped in the confines of my room, a silent witness to the lingering echoes of his words. The atmosphere feels heavy, as if the very walls are suffocating me, saturated with the remnants of our confrontation. His voice, sharp and unyielding, hangs in the air like a noxious cloud I cannot escape.

What Matteo said, it wasn’t just the words themselves that pierced me; it was the underlying truth I couldn’t deny.

“You’re a disaster waiting to happen.”

“You’re small because you’re weak. Stop pretending it’s something deeper.”

I had braced myself for the harshness, but the delivery was brutal—cold, clinical, as if I were merely a complex problem he was attempting to dissect. Each syllable felt like a hammer striking against the fragile structure of my self-worth, causing it to crumble a little more.

With a heavy heart, I shift my position, my legs feeling like lead beneath me, and make my way into the adjoining bathroom. The fluorescent light blares down, too harsh for my fragile state, so I flick it off. A soothing cascade of moonlight pours through the window, casting gentle shadows that dance across the tiles.

I grasp the edges of the sink, leaning forward to confront my reflection. The sight is a jarring reminder of my despair. My skin appears gaunt, the contours of my face sunken, and my eyes—oh, my eyes—are a haunting echo of exhaustion. I look like a ghost, a specter of someone who once held life in vibrant colors but now merely drifts through the monochrome of existence.

Desperation drives me to rummage through the clutter of my bathroom, searching for what I know I need.

What I crave.

My fingers brush against something at the back of a drawer.

Smooth.

Cold.

Sharp.

I grasp the razor, its metallic sheen glinting ominously in the dim light as I bring it closer to my arm. My skin seems to glow a sickly pale under the moonlight, and my eyes—those hollow orbs—stare back at me, devoid of any glimmer of hope.

“Pathetic,” I murmur to myself, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.

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